


Turning Point

by LeafOffTheWind (LeafOnTheWind)



Series: Ficlet Roulette [6]
Category: History - Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Battle Scenes, Blood and Violence, Fic Exchange, Gen, Guns, Lasers, Not Beta Read, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Robots, Swords, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27537919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeafOnTheWind/pseuds/LeafOffTheWind
Summary: A soldier from World War I becomes unstuck in time, waking each day to a new battle.He wonders who’s fighting, and what stupid reason it’s for; he wonders where he is; he wonders when, but none of that truly matters. He just needs to survive until tomorrow.
Series: Ficlet Roulette [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006431
Kudos: 1
Collections: Fanfic Roulette 2020 Round 7





	Turning Point

**Author's Note:**

> For a fic exchange. The prompts:
> 
> IP: Actual History  
> Prompt 1: Battle Scene  
> Prompt 2: Time Travel
> 
> I have a tendency to go the angsty route, so I did, whoops! I am not a history buff, so if there's an inaccuracy, please let me know in the comments!

His eyes fly open at the sound of a raw scream of pain next to him, liquid heat splashing into his shredded clothing. His breath quickens, adrenaline rushing into his veins like a goddamn flood as he rolls to the side, evading the swipe of a sword that would’ve taken off his head.

Survive. He just needs to survive. He feels a band tighten around his ribcage and his vision sharpens, moving entirely on instinct. There are sounds of explosions everywhere around him, and he doesn’t know where to turn.

He doesn’t even know why he’s here, how he’s managed this long. He’s been thrown from battle to battle, anywhere from an almost-calm honor duel all the way up to the kind of panic-inducing, heart-wrenching, all-out clash of armies this one seems to be.

As happens so often in these cases, he’s on neither side, a stranger, and therefore a target for everyone.

He blocks another swipe of the sword—It looks a bit like one of those he’d seen in one of many, many deserts, long ago, but thinner—with the misshapen remains of his gun, the bayonet long since snapped off, and reaches past his assailant to grab a knife from a third soldier, whirling around to stab into the neck of someone about to do the same to him.

Even if he loses his gun or his ruined pack while he’s—wherever the fuck he is, when he jumps, they’re back. If only they were in the same shape as they once were.

He’d run out of bullets within three jumps, not realizing how precious those tiny bits of metal and explosive would be. Occasionally, he’ll be in the right place and time to grab more, but even then, he’s surrounded by violence. It’s a big risk when you look the way he does, and when he has the chance to steal, food and water are always the priority.

There are dead everywhere. The man leans down and grabs at the firearm of one of the fallen soldiers; they won’t need it anymore. It looks to be an older model than his own. He doesn’t bother with anything else; if he’s here long enough for the fighting to subside, he’ll grab more. Until then, more will only be a hindrance.

He wonders who’s fighting, and what stupid reason it’s for. He wonders where he is. He wonders when.

Someone jabs at his side with a bayonet of their own, grimy and used. He’d admire the craftsmanship if it weren’t coated in his and who knows how many others’ blood, dripping into the red-soaked earth. They’re already turning away from him, turning to use that blade on another or to reload or to help a compatriot. Idiot. He grasps their wrist and twists just so, the crunch of broken bones barely audible over the screams and shouts around him, and finishes the job with a knife through the ribs.

He knew he’d been teleported the first time, of course. He’d been deep in France, smog and sweat and the noxious fumes that made up trench life on his tongue, just waiting for the order to go out and die over the top in no man’s land. Then he began to smell a tinge of garlic, and shouted the alarm. His hands were clumsy as he donned his gas mask, running towards the others.

He wonders if they survived. He wonders if _he_ survived, or if he died and this never-ending fight is Hell. It doesn’t matter. He’d fallen unconscious and woken to the soon-familiar sounds of metal clashing.

The second time, he’d woken to a man being slaughtered by dozens of others, their draped white clothing quickly stained red.

The third, strange bolts of light shot out of metal flying machines above him, too small to hold a human. That was one of the better ones, not that he knew it then. The land was barren, but there was a small stream, and the blasts above never touched him. It was almost peaceful, and he fell asleep.

And he kept waking up.

There seems to be a lull in the fighting around him, though he hears explosions still. Taking the opportunity, he hunkers down amongst the dead on the hillside and attempts to orient himself.

The gun he picked up is an older model than his own, as he thought, needing manual reload with gunpowder, so he’s after the invention of the firearm, but not up to the Great War, at least not on the western front. The bloodied uniforms surrounding him have what little color they started with dulled with dust and filth, with no significant design difference between the two sides.

He glances up and freezes. He knows that flag.

He whirls around to look up the hill. He knows that one, too.

If… if he’s where he thinks he is, this is the closest he’s been to home in a long, long time, only fifty-three years in the past from when he’d initially jumped. His heart leaps up to his throat. He’s a continent away, but maybe… maybe he can send a letter, before he’s thrust once more into the heat of battle.

If he survives, at least. In a battle between these sides, he knows which side he’ll pick. Though neither believes in his humanity at this point, one is distinctly less likely to enslave him, not that it’d keep.

Heh. It would be just his luck, wouldn’t it, for him to wake up twice _here_.

He heaves a breath as quietly as he can, the air thick with ash and smoke, and begins pulling from the bodies around him whatever he can that’s not too cumbersome. A knife here, a replacement gun—a musket, if he’s right—and accoutrement there.

A blast far too close tells him he’s run out of time in his almost-hiding spot, and he looks the man who shot at him in the eye, his fury masking his constant underlayer of absolute terror. The look of disgust on the man’s face as he yells to the rest of his squadron is clear, and he can feel his own face mirroring it.

That’s when he hears a clamor uphill. His breath catches in his chest as lines of soldiers come barrelling towards him. No, not him, the people behind him.

The band around his chest tightens again in anticipation, but he forces himself to his feet. If he stays down there, he gets trampled. If he stands still, he’s a target for both sides again.

If he joins them…

If he joins the charge, he’ll have chosen a side. He’ll have half at least _less_ likely to kill him. He hopes he’s right about this.

He reaches down to grasp the intact bayonet of a man in gray and screams, joining the charge.

\--

_Dearest Liza,_

_I hope this letter meets you in good health. Please know that I adore you, my dear, and long to hold you in my arms again, but I fear such a day will never come to pass. I have a terrible story to tell, and I dearly hope that you shall read it in full, no matter how fantastic it appears, for every word is the unvarnished truth._

_It is doubtless confusing to receive this letter. I should be on the front in France at the time you receive this, and yet it has been written on July 2 nd, 1863, many years before either of us are to be born, before even my father or mother. Nevertheless, trust that is it your Benjamin writing, and that you hold my heart ever and always._

_I do not have much time; it is never enough for me, now. By morning I shall be gone through no choice of my own. Even this time and supply I have is a gift I could not have expected, and I will likely never know should you receive this message._

_I shall be brief: I am cursed by God, I think. I am unstuck in time, and the Devil himself could not find a better punishment for a soldier than this._

_I was on the front, already exhausted, and we were gassed. I fell unconscious. I do not know if any of my regiment survived, nor in truth do I know if I did, but I did wake._

_From that point, I have only ever woken in conflict, and never the same one twice. I have seen the fall of Constantinople, I was in Paris for the storming of the Bastille, when Khan breached the Great Wall of China in the east, when Osrosa fell to the Düring, when the Inca overwhelmed the Cañari. I have seen conflict in the distant past and the distant future, and they blur together like layers of paint in the rain._

_I am so tired, Liza. I almost wish not to wake tomorrow, knowing that it will be to yet another fight, or duel, or battle, or war for me. I am so tired, but I will not stop fighting for the chance, however small, that I will look upon you again._

_There are things I carry with me yet, and the locket with your image is my most precious. I will hold you in my heart always, but I write to you to tell you to let me go. I love you dearly, Liza, but I do not know if I will ever return, if it is even possible. I cling to the memory of you, of us, as a dead man. Do not cling to me in turn._

_I love you._

_Yours always,  
Benjamin_


End file.
